Sunday, January 10, 2010

Happy Fucking New Year!

I gashed my thumb with a chisel, and a couple hours later dropped something heavy on my foot. I just went down to the floor because I though I should. It hurt, but I knew it wasn't broken, so really it just made me angry. And while down there on the floor, I decided to smash a small hole in a door with a nearby piece of scrap wood. That helped a little. I laid there with my foot up in the air to prevent swelling, and to enjoy the angle. I felt very comfortable lying somewhere I've been a million times in the eleven years I've lived in this apartment, but never seen from that point of view, head in the unlit hall, body in the front room, leg up on the workbench, lamps and guitars hanging. I tied my shoe tight and called it a night for guitar building.

The adrenaline from the anger has worn off, and now I'm left feeling sick and wondering why I'm not more depressed. I have little to show for my years on earth, nothing in my future, and living off what little I have in the way of fond memories from my distancing diminishing youth is unproductive. There is a philosophy that can explain why I'm not crushed by incapacitating depression, but I don't know what it is. That name. It exists with or without one. So the journey may as well begin now. With those parameters in place, I can see nothing but a severe lack of parameters. I'll take this lack of concern on my part, of my part, and use it to my advantage. This is where the book will begin, where the new year begins, where I've already been through it in a week's time, and it hasn't killed me. There's another philosophy that says I should have been made stronger by the shoulder/back/thumb/foot injuries, the awkward social exchanges, that terrible band, and the freezing walks. But I subscribe to that other philosophy that I don't know the name of. The one that is defined my me, who is either unaffected by life's horrors, or unknowingly strong. Here's to you, 2010. I've got you figured out, and you're all mine.

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